26. Chapter 26
Beau
Burns Night
Translation: An evening to celebrate the life and poetry of Robert Burns, Scotland’s national bard
Usage: To describe a fun-filled night where Scots gather, toast to haggis, recite poetry, give speeches, sing, and have a festive dinner together
It’s so cold I can barely think, but I can’t help but smile as I trudge through the grand old city of Edinburgh, majestic as ever.
Or maybe I’m just smitten.
Torin and I have been back at school for a couple of weeks, and while we haven’t made anything official, we’re spending more time together than before the holidays.
He consistently comes to the shared office, we go to the gym together a couple times a week, and when he doesn’t have his head stuck in a book, we text constantly.
Maeve’s noticed because of course she has.
Every time my phone buzzes, she looks up, giving me a knowing smirk.
But I want more. More time. More of him. I want to touch him again.
But I don’t do it.
I know how important school is to him, so I’m keeping things casual and letting them build on their own. I don’t want to be the reason he loses focus.
But the truth is, I don’t know where his head’s at.
After spending Hogmanay with my hands and mouth on him for so much of the night, it’s like he’s now drawn a line and isn’t sure whether to cross it. So I stay on my side, too.
A blast of wind cuts through my coat and I hunch my shoulders, but it’s not the cold that’s got me wound tight.
Every time I think of him in my lap, my patience for casual diminishes a little more.
I’ve never gone this long without sex, not by choice anyway, but I’m holding out for Torin.
We’re not exclusive, but, as far as I’m concerned, we might as well be.
Even if we haven’t said it. Even if he doesn’t know what he wants yet. Which is definitely a problem.
Yeah, I need to order more lube.
I whip out my phone and add some to my cart, then include some weightlifting straps for Torin. He’s getting into some heavy deadlifts and will need them soon. And I really hope we can put both items to good use before long. Thank goodness for one-day shipping.
I knock when I get to Isla’s house and stamp my boots against the step. Maeve answers.
“Beau!” she says and pulls me inside, shoving the door closed behind me, then kisses my cheek. “So glad you’re here!”
“Couldn’t miss my first Burns Night,” I say, taking off my coat and gloves, ears straining, listening for him.
“Yes, Torin’s already here,” she says with that all-knowing smirk.
“I wasn’t—” I sputter. “I didn’t—”
“Yes, you were, and yes, you did,” she says, hanging my coat as I blush, and not just from the cold.
“Am I really that obvious?” I ask.
She glances back at me, eyebrows raised. “Again, yes. But it’s not just you. He’s not being shy about his interest in you, either. Not anymore.”
The tension in my chest and shoulders loosens. If Torin’s interest in me is apparent to her, then it’s not all in my head, which alleviates some of my concern about where I stand with him.
“Come on,” Maeve says, grabbing the bottle of whisky I’d brought, “let’s get you a drink, and you can spend the night staring at your crush.”
I blush again and follow her toward the noise. The room is already full, voices overlapping, glasses clinking, a mix of attire from casual to formal, tartan abounds. My eyes move automatically, scanning the crowd. I need to see him.
Another bit of tension releases from my chest when I find him, sipping from his glass and nodding at Isla and her boyfriend, Thomas.
He says something that makes them both laugh.
He’s smiling with them, not holding himself back, not hovering at the edges and looking for an escape.
There’s a confidence in him I haven’t seen before, like he belongs. And God, it looks good on him.
I must’ve been staring for a while because Maeve returns and gives me a whisky and a little shove in Torin’s direction. I step toward him, and his eyes lock with mine, my heart fluttering as his smile grows. I’m grinning like an idiot by the time I make it to him.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” I say back.
For a second, I forget where we are. I want to kiss him.
Isla clears her throat. She and Thomas are watching us, both wearing identical and infuriatingly knowing expressions. Ah, right. Room full of people. “Thank you for hosting this,” I say, pulling myself together.
“It’s no trouble,” Isla says, giving me a kiss on the cheek. “My housemates all go out and get absolutely steamed on Burns Night, so we have the whole place to ourselves.”
“And we need to start preparing the haggis,” Thomas says, shaking my hand before pulling Isla away to the kitchen.
“Make yourselves at home,” Isla calls with that same smirk before disappearing around a corner.
I turn back to Torin, who’s still smiling while shaking his head. “Well, they weren’t subtle at all about leaving us alone, were they?”
A laugh bursts out of me. “Not at all.” I step in and give him a hug, the urge to touch him overwhelming my caution about his need for discretion. I just love seeing him like this. So self-assured. So sexy.
His hands linger on my back, and when I meet his gaze, he doesn’t look away, doesn’t scan the room, doesn’t check who might be watching. It’s like he’s forgotten where we are. Or simply doesn’t care. And something in me shifts, my heart warming.
“Shall we?” I ask, gesturing to the rest of the party.
“We shall.” He nods, a glint of mischief in his eye, as his hand slides the rest of the way down my back before he follows me into the crowd of colleagues.
He stays by my side, his hand finding my shoulder when talking about something I’ve said or accomplished, our knuckles brushing together as we mingle. I somehow keep my arm from going around him, to show everyone here that Torin is mine. And that I’m his.
And I am. The more I watch those green eyes sparkle as he enjoys himself with our classmates, the more I feel like I’m falling into them.
The confidence in him tonight is drawing people in, but it’s drawing me in more, until I’m lost in it, half undone by how much I want to be the one standing beside him like this every time, at every event, in every room.
Maeve turns on a bagpipe recording of “The Star o’ Robbie Burns” as Isla brings out the haggis, the room breaking into cheers as she makes her way to the large table in the corner of the room.
Setting it down, she welcomes us and leads us in “Address to a Haggis,” a poem written by Robert Burns himself, Thomas sharpening the knife and stabbing the haggis at just the right moment.
Torin comes with me to get food, and we joke as we help each other fill our plates, my mind flashing back to the night I’d first tried haggis, the way his face had flushed when I told him nothing about me was small.
That night had been a turning point for me and Torin.
With the way he’s looking at me, eyes bright, I hope tonight will be one as well.
By the time we make it through the line, most of the seating has been claimed, so I motion to a large reading chair tucked in the far corner.
I move to perch on the arm, fully intending to let Torin take the seat.
Only he doesn’t sit. Instead he looks at me, one brow lifting. “What? I can’t sit in your lap again?”
And it does something to me I’m not prepared for. I swallow hard.
“Well,” I say after a beat, “this chair does look sturdier than the last one.” I grin, my entire core warming at the memory. “Let’s give it a shot.”
I sit, shifting back to make space, holding my plate to one side, and Torin doesn’t hesitate to settle that perfect ass onto my thigh.
I grip the plate tighter, wonder and excitement and lust pulsing through me.
He shifts. Fuck. I drag in a breath as I send up a silent prayer of gratitude that his legs are blocking the view of my expanding bulge.
I’m one move away from dragging him closer and not caring if we have an audience.
I’ve never been this hot for someone before.
Around us, the room carries on, laughter and music as we eat, but it all fades to a soft blur.
A few of our classmates glance over, seeing us cuddled up in the corner, but I don’t mind how they smirk at each other.
I’ve needed this. Not just to touch Torin again, but to know he’s interested enough to let our classmates in on whatever’s happening between us.
Torin eats, gesturing as he talks, telling me more about Robert Burns and the various traditions of the evening.
His excitement about Scottish history never wanes.
I should probably be paying more attention.
I try, but my focus keeps slipping. To the curve of his mouth.
To the way the light catches his eyes when he looks at me. To his ass in my crotch.
We finish our food and set our plates to the side. I assume he’ll want to get up, put some distance between us now the excuse is gone. But he settles in, leans back against my shoulder, fitting there like he’s decided to stay.
If he’s good with this, then I sure as fuck am, too.
I put an arm around his waist and hand him his whisky with the other, then grab my own.
We clink glasses and sip at all the appropriate moments during the traditional Burns Night speeches, but I hardly hear what’s said.
All I can think about is Torin’s body against mine and how much I want to make him feel good.
The longer he stays, the harder it is to sit still. Every small movement of his only makes it worse, the way he shifts without thinking, or maybe he knows exactly what he’s doing, and exactly what it’s doing to me.
An ache of need grows between my legs, and I hope my patience for casual has a coat because it has gone out the window.
I finish my glass and set it down, buying myself a second, then let my hand rest on Torin’s thigh, as if it’s nothing.
He sighs and relaxes even more into me. There’s no way he doesn’t feel it, my cock throbbing against him.
We all remain seated in the cluttered space to sing “Auld Lang Syne,” which is good. I don’t think this erection is going away any time soon.
Torin sits up and drains the last of his whisky. “Do you want another drink?” he asks, his gorgeous eyes locking with mine before flicking down to my lips and back up again.
I swallow hard and make up my mind. “Sure,” I say, knowing damn well I’m not having any more alcohol until I take care of something.
Torin subtly adjusts himself before rising, and I miss the feel of him against me already. I sort myself out and follow him toward the kitchen, but as we round the corner, I catch his hand and pull him up the stairs instead.
“Where are we going?” Torin asks, breath uneven, fingers tightening around mine.
“To find a bedroom,” I say, feeling his hand tremble. I squeeze it reassuringly and open the door at the end of the hall, pulling him in before closing it.
I press him against the door, and we stare into each other’s eyes for a moment. Then Torin fumbles for the doorknob and engages the lock before pulling me to him. My mouth is on his in an instant, all the restraint of the past few weeks snapping clean. I’m so goddamn hungry for him.
His mouth opens, tongue seeking, heat and intent searing between us, hands inside my blazer, over my sides, my back, like he’s been waiting for this as long as I have. I do the same, groping every bit of him I can. We grind together, and fuck, I don’t think I’ve ever been this hard before.
His jacket slides off his shoulders under my hands, and mine follows, discarded somewhere behind us, both of us fighting to keep our mouths together, clumsy with urgency, as we struggle to remove one of the barriers between us, both of us chuckling at the absurdity of our hunger and need.
My mouth trails down, finding the line of his throat, and I take my time, pressing, tasting, licking, and sucking, drawing out a sound from him that sends a zing of desire directly to my cock.
“Beau,” he whispers in such desperation that I almost orgasm.
“You have no idea,” I murmur against his skin, kissing my way to his earlobe before nipping at it with my teeth, “how badly I wanted to get on my knees for you when I saw you in that kilt.”
“Oh, God,” he says as I grind against him, his hands encouraging me. “Tell me more things I don’t know.”
“The first time I met you,” I say, switching to the other side of his neck, his hand pulling my head tighter to him, “you looked so goddamn sexy. I wanted to throw you over my shoulder, carry you to my bed, and watch those beautiful green eyes roll back in your head.”
“Christ,” he gasps as I drag my mouth lower, working two of his buttons open, pulling the neck of his shirt down and sucking on the tender spot at his collar until his head tips back.
“Your turn,” I say, lifting off just enough to look at him. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“I—” he starts, then breaks off as I pull my hips back and grab his erection through his slacks.
“Say it, Torin,” I command, massaging his impressive length, tip to base, eliciting a reaction from him that I feel as much as hear.
“You don’t know,” he gasps, “how much I want to lick that huge vein in your right bicep every time I see it.”
“Oh, I definitely already knew that,” I say as I untuck his shirt and slide my hands around his exposed waist, gripping him tight, pressing against him, letting the friction build, feeling so right. “And then you want to lick the one on the left, don’t you?”
“Fuck. Yes.” The words spill out between kisses, his hands moving over my ass, “I could lick every bit of you.”
“And you’d let me lick every bit of you?” I ask before pressing my mouth to his again.
“God, yes,” he says, his hands roving my body. “Lick anything. Lick everything. Whatever you want. I’ve imagined you doing so many things to me. ”
A growl rumbles out of me as my hips snap, causing us to throb against each other in new ways. “Tell me something you’ve imagined me doing to you.”
“I—” He hesitates, so I bite his lip, then release it slowly.
“Torin,” I say, my voice a warning rumble, needing to hear him say it.
“Fuck,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut as my hips buck against him again.
“Look at me, Torin.” He does.
“I’ve imagined you”—he swallows, and in his smoldering expression I see heat and something more vulnerable—“looking up at me with those perfect blue eyes while you suck my cock.”
Every syllable of his words compounds the ache in my balls. It was all the permission I needed.
I step back, just enough to break the contact. I don’t rush, I let him feel it, the anticipation of every heightened second, as I drop to my knees in front of him, reach for his belt, enjoying the wide-eyed look of shock on his handsome face.
“What the—” he says, voice breathy.
“Torin, I need this,” I say, giving his cock a squeeze as I unbutton his pants, “and it seems like you need it, too.”
He nods and watches, lips parted, as I pull down his zipper.